Paul Brunton
Each man discovers afresh for himself this homey old truth, that he has a sacred soul. He need not wait for death to discover it or depend solely on the words of dead prophets until then.
He knows that in striving to fulfill the higher purpose of his being, he is not only obeying the voice of conscience but also approaching the place of blessedness.
There are reserves of Power and Intelligence within yourself, of which you live undreaming.
In its early manifestation it may show as a feeling of being too limited by ignorance of life’s meaning and purpose and the need to get some light in this darkness. But the feeling may be too vague, too generalized and ill-defined to be detected and known for what it is.
At intervals, on certain grave, joyous, or relaxed occasions, he may feel a deep nostalgia for what he may only dimly and vaguely comprehend. He may name it, in ignorance, otherwise but it will really be for his true spiritual source.
What a bitter irony it is that the soul, which is so near, in our very hearts in fact, is yet felt by so few!
Those who have come for the first time to an awakening of thought upon these matters, may grow more enthusiastic as they explore them more.
The heart leaps at the thought that life has some higher meaning, some better worth.
In starting this task, he knows that he is not carrying out his own personal desire but following a way chalked out for him by the higher self.
They cannot really escape from this inner loneliness by outer means. In the end, and however long put off, they will have to face it. Most often, such an hour comes in with sorrow or bereavement, hurt or disappointment.
There are certain rare moments when intense sorrow or profound bereavement makes a man sick at heart. It is then that desires temporarily lose their force, possessions their worth, and even existence itself its reality. He seems to stand outside the busy world whose figures flit to and fro like the shadowy characters on a cinema screen.
Worst of all, perhaps, significance vanishes from human activity, which becomes a useless tragi-comedy, a going everywhere and arriving nowhere, an insane playing of instruments from which no music issues forth, a vanity of all the vanities. It is then, too, that a terrible suicidal urge may enter his blood and he will need all his mental ballast not to make away with himself.
Yet these black moments are intensely precious, for they may set his feet firmly on the higher path. Few realize this whilst all complain. The self-destruction to which he is being urged by such dread experiences of life is not the crude physical act, but something subtle – a suicide of thought, emotion, and will.
The 113th birth anniversary of Paul Brunton will be observed on October 21
